


Rest for the Wicked

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Seaside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley take a (wretched, no good, really bad) holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest for the Wicked

It's Aziraphale's idea: a few nights in Brighton at a lovely little sea-front inn he'd read about in _The Sunday Times Magazine_. A few days to recuperate. To readjust one's senses, to catch up on reading, to appreciate the quite unique sensation of sand between one's toes.

It's the sort of thing people _do_. If not person-shaped beings.

And for laughs, Crowley goes along with it. What's the worst thing that cold happen?

*

"I've never been so miserable in all my existence," Aziraphale moans. He doesn't bother to lift his face up from the sofa he'd collapsed on some minutes before, so it comes out something more like, "Mmpf, mmmpf."

Crowley gets the gist of it. "Cool it, Aziraphale. We've only been here an hour and already you're going on about the rain. What did you expect? It's _April_ , for pity's sake."

"April came most _highly_ recommended. And I quote, 'A quiet, playful time at the sea will drag you right out of your post-winter doldrums. Money-conscious city folk take note: spring rates are often half that of the high holiday-making season.'"

"I'd say we've been had, but _you're_ the one paying." Crowley filled in a line on his crossword: D-E-L-I-G-H-T. Then he glanced up, smiling a little at the decidedly un-delighted angel. "Come on, then. I think we could both use a drink or three."

*

Of course, it wasn't _only_ the rain.

Upon check-in, the hostess frowned down at her ledger, then gave Aziraphale a not-quite-apologetic look. "I'm sorry sir," she had said, "but we've only a double room available."

Aziraphale blanched. "I booked a room with twin beds. You mean to tell me you've given it away?"

"Not exactly-- we're undergoing a full interior renovation. It's the off-season, you know--"

"It's fine," Crowley cut in. And catching Aziraphale's eye: "Right, angel?"

Aziraphale arched a brow. "I'm sure I don't-- Well. Yes. Fine," he said, stretching his features into what was obviously an attempt at a _you-must-be-joking_ scowl.

Crowley returned it with a sunny _not-in-the-slightest_ pat on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"What are you up to?" Aziraphale hissed a few minutes later when they reached the staircase and began to ascend single-filed. "It's not _like_ you to simply _go_ with things."

"Eh? It's _exactly_ like me to go with things," said Crowley. "Don't forget: we're on holiday!"

Aziraphale grumbled something in response.

Unfortunately, Crowley couldn't hear what it was. There were no less than four wallpaper steamers, six industrial-strength hoovers, and as many compact jackhammers operating up and down the corridor.

The stench of dust was revolting.

If they hadn't been the only ones in the inn, if other people's marvelous plans were being claimed as collateral damage, Crowley would have let it go and worked through his own discomfort with circumspect satisfaction.

But it was just Aziraphale, and just him.

While Aziraphale was busy working the room key back and forth in the sticky lock, Crowley looked over his shoulder and said, quite softly, "Why don't you boys take the rest of the week off, full pay."

The workers heard him.

*

"Another two pints of bitter," Crowley tells the barman. He lays out a few neat bills, then takes the glasses back to the table where Aziraphale is staring dejectedly out the window.

Crowley slides onto his bench but keeps both drinks in front of him. He tries to catch Aziraphale's eye. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want something?"

Aziraphale doesn't budge.

"C'mon, Aziraphale," Crowley chides. "It's hardly--"

"Hardly the end of the world?"

"That isn't what I was going to say, and you know it. Though the end of the world was of course a total ball, and really quite a lot more interesting than sitting in a dodgy pub in Brighton in April in the rain."

"Hmm," says Aziraphale.

"Take your drink." And then, when Aziraphale finishes half it in one gulp: "You're getting the next round."

*

"Well," says Aziraphale, "I suppose it isn't all bad."

"'S'not a bad way to put it," Crowley agrees.

They're in bed, both still fully clothed, save for their shoes and socks -- these sit in a sodden heap by the door. Crowley has half a mind to say a few unkind words to whichever of them suggested a walk on the beach at what was unmistakably high tide, but he suspects it was in fact himself.

Aziraphale has his arm stretched out, sideways. His hand is almost cradling Crowley's head. His fingers are certainly in Crowley's hair. That's not bad either.

But they're not touching otherwise.

Between them rests the obscenely large purple lion Crowley won in a target game at the pier. It was the first time anyone had ever shot all ten pins down. (This was because it was hitherto impossible to shoot all ten pins down.) Aziraphale laughed heartily when the booth attendant took it down -- and laughed a little less when Crowley told him he was in charge of carrying the thing back to their room.

Aziraphale turns enough to give Crowley a bleary smile. "I'm glad you're here." He says it slowly, somberly, almost as though he's admitting to haven eaten the whole package of Garibaldi's again.

"Misery loves company," Crowley replies. But damn him, he's glad too.


End file.
